This Could Be Anywhere

The East Pole, now in crepuscular autumn light that would last for seven cycles, was a drab gray expanse of buildings, many abandoned, some hosting small packs of squatters who lit fires for cooking, warmth and light. The columns of smoke from their shelters rose straight up slowly to be driven away by the planetary jet stream.

The former site of a warehouse, long since burned to the ground, was now a collection of tents, forming a fragile sort of fortification. On the side facing the causeway, a half-dozen sleek space-craft were parked in front of the tent city, the vessels garishly decorated with bright, primary-color paint-jobs and huge spoilers.

A seventh vessel parked in the lot, and a young man in an improvised flight suit stepped out of the cockpit. He did not remove his helmet, and proceeded to the ring of gray-green tents.

Just inside the tents, a tattered collection of cast-off people slept on mats, as a huge view-screen blared a soap opera set in the prosperous and temperate equatorial regions of Suburbia, where the wealthy controlled vast manors and squabbled among themselves. On the walls were posters in primary colors, decorated with slogans like "PEOPLE ARE NOT PRODUCTS" and "LIVE AGAIN", stylized upraised fists, and a simple, squiggly sigil, an M and a 7, arranged to look as if the right descender on the M were a lightning bolt.

It was a simple logo; other posters encouraged residents of the shelter to spread the word by spray-painting it on abandonded buildings. Many had done exactly this.

A burly, bear-like older male watched the shelter. He waved the young man thorough to the inner courtyard of the tent city.

The young man bowed his head as the tent flaps opened and he saw the communal fire-pit in the middle of the courtyard. Here the fellowship feasts were held, where the lost and the lonely taught and sang songs forgotten generations ago and learned the strange language still remembered in fragments by their great-grandparents.

He proceeded around the firepit, crossing it on the left side. A flap opened on the tent facing him, held by an absurdly large hand ending in triangular black claws.

While the guard in the common room was large, the guard in the temple was gigantic; if he were physically capable of standing fully erect for more than a few moments, he would have easily been twice the height of his colleague.

"Thu come inn. I am Bearcat. Da mithstresh ish waitling."

The monster's fangs gave his speech a lisping quality. His eyes were gentle, but his face was a rough parody of the young man's, with heavy brows and powerful jaw muscles. The young man hesitated for a moment, but quickly regained his composure and entered the tent.

Bearcat nodded directly to the camera, and the floor descended into a hangar-like undergound complex. It was dark, illuminated only by overhead spots. Outside a polka-dot grid of yellowish light, the hall was in deepest darkness.

A voice came from that darkness, speaking an alien tongue.

"Pee my nah ghey peh zhnolazh. Nah dey medzh yo nagada. Djodo mah ghey?"

Convenient sub titles were added in post-production.

(You are not the one, but you will do nicely. We are being watched, secrecy is paramount. Do you understand?)

The young man hesitated for a moment, and then spoke.

"Umm. Snow my a delidoh. Nop peh-ha..." The young man struggled to find a word, and before he could stop himself, he said "...umm."

(Yes, proceed. I am a carrier of a message. How can I -- yes, proceed.)

A light came on in the darkness. An old woman sat on a folding chair, wearing a remarkable hat; a skullcap of bone-colored cloth with a veil in the back and two flaps, flipped down over the eyes. The flaps were decorated with a simple, stylized pattern of an eye in black ink.

"It is regrettable that Corporate culture keeps you from your proper tongue. A better hesitation word is 'erm'. In addition, forgive me for not removing my hat. It is for dreamingfor which I sit in the dark. You, of course, need not remove yours."

The young man was chastened, and sunk his head. "I apologize, Demonslayer. Honor Guard is coming! They will be landing soon, near here."

"I am aware of this. Don't panic. It is not your concern." Demonslayer sat back in her chair.

As Bearcat came up behind the young man, a second form emerged from the darkness with heavy, metallic footsteps. It was a robot, a very large one, another parody of the Fe Arran form in shiny alloy, curves and angles.

Its had two glowing yellow lights where the eyes should have been; they glowed like a campfire, flickering to orange, and were strangely mesmerizing.

"Today I salute you, reckless youth facing death. Know now it awaits you, empty space takes your breath."

"Very pretty, Killotron. Now shut up before he wets himself." Demonslayer reclined back into a sleeping position. "Bearcat, see him out. Pleased to meet thee."

Approximately one thousand kilometers above their heads, the Nightstalker began its descent. The hull, for what it was worth, was pristine.

Jolt was still in command, and did her best not to look nervous. To her right, the First Mate scanned the rest of the crew. Thresher didn't need an acceleration chair, but the Eye and Arsenal did.

The Eye was optimistic, but Arsenal was badly shaken. He had restored the ship to its former state, but not completely; the state of the internal registers in the ship's computers no longer matched the data in memory. Every single system failed, nearly simultaneously.

Nearly everyone agreed that while the superficial damage was gone, the Nightstalker still needed some time planetside to ensure that critical systems were still working. Feeling guilty, Arsenal resolved that he would not make the same mistake again.

Suburbia loomed large below, and the sphere gradually became a horizon. A powered descent down a military corridor began, and the crew was tense.

It was over rather soon. The star-ship dove through the sheath of insubstantial flame, entered the frigid upper atmosphere, fell beneath the clouds decelerating as the planet's gravity began to clash with the artificial gravity aboard the Nightstalker.

A few moments later, the spade-shaped starship hovered over the military starbase, and, silently, descended to the cheers of a waiting fire crew.

"All crew, prepare to disembark." Jolt relaxed visibly, and Honor Guard filed out of the bridge to the dull gray landscape of urban ruin in which they would be spending the next cycle.